


Fifth Floor Window

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Series: Fifth Floor Window [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Noir AU setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the cases pile up, some things have to be sacrificed. Damian sounded bitter, but Tim probably deserved it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifth Floor Window

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for Vare from like, a year ago! This is secretly still one of my favorite things I've written. Damian and Tim are aged to like, mid-twenties. Whichever specific age in that range you want.

It was days like these Tim really lamented the fact they had a fifth floor office. Each step jarred the gash on his thigh, and by the second landing he was already sick to death of the sound of water dripping from his coat and squeaking under the sole of his shoe. 

The building was empty. There was no other business in it – they’d all left months ago, like _sensible_ people – so why Damian _insisted_ on being on the fifth floor was still a mystery. Probably would be until they shut the business down, and even past that. 

Of course, the bigger mystery would always be why Tim even agreed to it in the first place. They were 50-50 owners, he could have just said no. 

When he reached the fifth floor, he paused. Climbing stairs really shouldn’t leave him so winded. The hallway light flickered, and Tim sighed. Add changing the bulb to his perpetual list of things to do. Slowly, he hobbled down to the door with the glass marked _Wayne & Drake, P.I.s_. 

Why did Damian’s name get to go first? 

The shade was down, so he pushed the door open harshly. It was three in the morning, no one would- 

“Rough night?”

Tim jumped, reaching for his gun. But before he could get through the layers of wet-trench coat, his brain realized the familiarity. His hands dropped to his sides like dead weight. 

“I thought you said you were going home at ten.” Tim sighed in annoyance, pulling his drenched hat from his head, tossing it onto the coat rack by the door. Damian sat behind his desk, feet propped up and crossed on its corner by the lamp casting a dim glow across the room. He wasn’t wearing his vest, but otherwise was still in the clothes he’d worn all day. Charcoal gray slacks with the white shirt, only now the sleeves were rolled to his elbows and the buttons by the collar were popped open. 

“I did. But Alfred missed you. And it was _your_ turn to feed him.” Damian hummed the last phrase almost accusingly, not looking up from the file he was currently reading. Damian didn’t react still, when a furry black-and-white head popped up between his arms, starring at Tim. “So, I brought him here. Since I _knew_ you’d come here first anyway.” 

Damian sounded bitter, and Tim knew he probably deserved that. 

Alfred climbed off Damian’s lap, sitting squarely on his desk, staring at Tim expectantly. Tim shrugged out of his trench coat, hanging it below his hat, and walked forward. The cat’s fur was warm and soft, and Tim found himself relaxing at its feeling. The cat purred lightly, but Tim could tell the small creature was annoyed with him too. 

“If it makes you feel better, I caught the guy this time.” Tim said meekly. Damian tilted his head, bringing a hand up to his mouth. A cigarette was between two fingers. Tim frowned. “I thought Dick told you to stop that.” 

“If it really bothered him, then he should have stopped Todd from giving them to me.” Damian countered, stuffing the butt into a half hidden ashtray anyway. “Who was it?” 

Back to business. Of course. “Fries. He blamed the doctors he was targeting for his wife’s death.” 

“He was right.” Damian shrugged. 

Tim exhaled sharply. “How many times have I asked you? Stop sympathizing with the criminals.” 

“I just said his _reasoning_ was right.” Damian snapped as Tim picked up Alfred and limped to his own desk. Lying on his stack of case files was an unopened can of wet cat food. Damian was never subtle. “I didn’t say what he was _doing_ was.” 

“ _I_ know that, but our _clients_ don’t.” Tim explained calmly, opening the can and placing it in front of the cat. “And if they catch wind of the rumor that you _might_ agree with their enemies, what do you think that’s going to do for business?” 

“Screw the business.” Damian huffed, tossing the file onto his desk. He stomped his feet onto the floor, standing and looking out the window to the rain. “It’s not like we’re doing any good anyway. Crime numbers are _up_.” 

Tim stared at him for a moment, before taking his jacket off, exposing his waistcoat. He leaned back against his desk, prodding at the tear in his own light gray trousers, right above the gash. “You’re tired, Damian.” He whispered. “This is why I made you promise you’d go home. You need your rest.” 

“And that’s why we have a cot in the office.” Damian hissed, not turning around. Knowing Damian, he wasn’t just aggravated by Tim – and that was hardly anything new – but by everything. “Besides, _you’re_ tired too. If you weren’t you wouldn’t have gotten that slice on your leg.” 

And that’s what made Damian one of the best in the business. He hadn’t even _looked_ at Tim yet. 

Tim opened his mouth to retort when lightening flashed outside. On the roof across the street, Tim saw a shape, one that looked eerily similar to a human body. But more than that, he saw a small glint in what would be that human’s hand. A hand that was raised, and pointing towards Damian’s window. 

But Damian hadn’t seen it. He was looking down, watching a lone car growl down the street. 

“Dami-“ Tim was across the room before he realized it, shoving at Damian’s shoulders roughly. He was barely able to pull his hands back before the glass shattered, and a bullet hit the lamp on Damian’s desk, knocking the room into darkness. Tim faintly registered Alfred jumping to the floor for safety. 

Damian reacted instantly, throwing Tim to the floor and grabbing his own gun off his desk. He shot four times, but Tim knew he hit their assailant on the first try. His partner hadn’t even seen the gunman, just mapped the trajectory of the bullet. All in a _millisecond_. 

And people said Damian Wayne was attractive because of his looks. 

Damian stood there for another ten seconds, arm out the window and finger on the trigger. His eyes were sharp as they scanned the area. Lightening flashed and, even from his position on the floor, Tim saw no one else. 

“I think we’re good…” Tim began as Damian lowered his gun. Damian snorted and spun around, making his way to the door. “Whoa, Damian, wait-” 

“No one tries to kill me and gets _away_ with it.” Damian hissed. Tim stumbled over to him, grabbing his arm. 

“Damian, you can’t. You’re exhausted, you’re…” Tim glanced down when he felt a sticky wetness under his fingers. He shifted his hand, and glass clinked as it fell to the floor. “You’re _bleeding_.”

“So are you, and you jumped into action.” Damian countered. “Besides, the rain will wash away the evidence.” 

“It already did. The storm’s too bad. The evidence was gone before it was evidence at all.” Tim tugged at Damian’s arm, leading him away from the door. “Just…just let me fix you up.” Damian resisted, pulling back slightly. Tim reached up, holding the back of Damian’s head, forcing him to look at him. _“Please.”_  

Tim knew he won when Damian sighed, dropping his shoulders. Quickly, before Damian could try to change his mind, he led Damian over to the cot. He left him there, going over to the broken window and closing the shutters, in hopes to keep some rain out. He continued his circuit to his own desk, picking up Alfred under one arm, turning on his lamp, and grabbing their medical kit. 

Damian didn’t speak as Tim cleaned the cuts and used tweezers to get the remaining glass out of the wounds. When he was done, he forced Damian to lie down on the bed, but remained next to him as he cut a bigger hole into his pants, stitching the gash along his thigh. By the time he was done, Damian was only half conscious, breathing even as his barely-open eyes watched Tim work. 

Tim placed the first-aid kit on the floor, then draped himself gently across Damian’s torso. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, running his fingers over the buttons of Damian’s shirt. “I’m sorry I haven’t been coming home.” 

“You could have just told me that I did something.” Damian murmured. “I would have rectified the problem.” 

“It wasn’t you,” Tim smiled warmly. It was nice when Damian trusted him enough to be honest with him. “It was just…this case was for a friend. Conner, remember him? I wanted to make sure he was safe.” 

Damian hummed, sleepy eyes shifting up towards the ceiling. But Tim knew he was forgiven when he felt Damian’s hand skim across his waist. He shifted, leaning closer up to Damian’s face. Alfred curled up happily under Damian’s armpit, kneading at Tim’s stomach. 

“You were wrong, you know. We shouldn’t ‘screw the business.’ We _are_ making a difference.” Tim practically sang. “Crime may be up, but not every P.I. gets a midnight assassin after them.” 

Finally – and it seemed like _years_ since he had – Damian looked down at Tim willingly, a smirk melting onto his face. “We’ve been noticed.” 

“That we have.” Tim matched the grin. He rested his chin on Damian’s chest, brushing his lips against the skin by the open collar. “We’ve scared them.”

“Suspicious and cowardly,” Damian sounded amused as he lightly squeezed Tim’s side – and that was dangerous and exciting, all at once. He closed his eyes, and sighed as he settled against the bed, Tim following suit against him. “The lot of them.”


End file.
